


Waves

by Indybaggins



Category: Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: Friendship/Love, Inspired by Poetry, Introspection, M/M, Unconventional Format
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-20
Updated: 2008-08-20
Packaged: 2018-01-10 09:38:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indybaggins/pseuds/Indybaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan, seen through the eyes of those around him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waves

**Author's Note:**

> This story was a late birthday present for of_gardenias. The inspiration comes from the book “The Waves” by Virginia Woolf. It’s one of the most extraordinary books I have ever read, and I certainly meant no disrespect by writing this. Beta was by sister_coyote.

 

 

“He smiles,” Colin says. “He’s warm like summer afternoons, and comfortable as a silence between friends. He stands across from me, and we are playing, like children in sunlight.”

“I can see him smiling,” Clive says. “I know they are not for me, his smiles, but they strike me regardless, make the pounding of my heart stutter before I end their game.”

“He looks over at me,” Wayne says. “He walks up to me, but his eyes are empty; he is not truly seeing me. I am a ghost; I am not here because he will only see the others.”

“He sits down next to me,” Greg says. “He whispers in low tones, as if he is afraid to startle me with the prickly wit of his words. I reply and speak loudly; I push words out of my mouth as soon as they arrive from the back of my skull. He tilts his head sideways as he listens to them.” 

“I don’t truly know him,” Chip says. “He sits besides me now. Sometimes he touches me. His hands are like stones, lifeless and solid. I lean on him, and he is nothing, he does not feel me.” 

“He is careful,” Jeff says. “I see him from afar. He does not hurt anyone because he treads lightly, weaves webs like a spider. I don’t long for him, but yet he moves closer and closer to my chest.” 

 

 

“He is always in love,” Colin says. “He falls for smiles as if they are beacons of light, and swims towards them on an endless sea. He is seasick. He kissed me on the train, and on the way home. We were ten plus ten plus ten and they were minutes.” 

“He loves deeply,” Clive says. “I feel time creep over my bones, seconds chipping away at my skin. I want his touch to rush my blood, to whisper to me that I am still alive. I do not ask because he will say no and I will be pushed into myself, I will be less than before.”

“He only loves himself,” Wayne says. “He takes what he wants, absorbs it like warmth, and so he took me. The wall was strong and cold on my back and his fingers were stiff as sticks stroking my stomach. He did not see me cry out as he pushed me up, up to the ceiling.” 

“I think he loves me,” Greg says. “He does not truly, but his lies have found a welcome in my ears, they are growing strong. I do not need him but yet I want him to become me and my words to rage inside of him, my lips to still his breath with kisses.” 

“He does not think of loving me,” Chip says. “I am too new, like a bird just cracked free from a fragile-blue shell. He does not know how to hurt me, but I made him; like a tall tree broken down by a child’s axe, I made him sigh.” 

“He has never loved anyone,” Jeff says. “He is dark inside, like slick slick oil splashed on crystal windows. He never stays but I do not need him to, we are one and the same under the velvet dark of covers, we dance together and only leave bruised fingerprints on each other’s skin to prove it.” 

 

 

“This moment never ends,” Colin says. “We will never move away, he will smile, and smile, and smile, and time will be ours. Our fingers and faces and bodies will be curled into each other and lit in celebration, for days and nights while I do not close my eyes.”

“The game is over,” Clive says. “I have never and I never will, my mouth still open, stuck on unsaid words that twist in my stomach and thrum behind my lips in a heavy foreign beat. I feel letters drip on the tip of my tongue and questions scatter over my face like ants, almost asking but never.” 

“His eyes won’t see me,” Wayne says. “We get old like brittle leaves that drift in fall. Our color shines, still, but I am shifting, I am becoming. I will not need his eyes on me for I will have all others, and it will make me warm and real.” 

“I want to need him,” Greg says. “His whispers claw at my chest, bones pulsating to be closer. Skin and skin and his teeth sting my shoulder, like a bee when I was ten and I cried, long, wailing sounds because I was empty, still.” 

“I never know him,” Chip says. “He will never smile. He will make me into nothing, his wide hands will grab and grab until I am a bird in a cage that flies up against the bars, again and again until it can fly no more.” 

“For now, I play with him,” Jeff says. “I will bend and waver and change so he does not see me, so his touch will not stir me. And I will not become as the others, for they are sad and I will look away as he begs under me.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
